


Family is More than Blood

by TheHuffliestPuff



Series: The Adventures of Din Djarin on Earth [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, ManDadlorian, Mandalorian Culture, Mando'a, Parent-Child Relationship, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:53:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22470598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHuffliestPuff/pseuds/TheHuffliestPuff
Summary: “Is everything I’ve been through because of the will of a few story writers?”In which Din mysterious appears in our world, and meets Pedro and the rest of the cast ofThe Mandalorian.Initial idea is taken from megasaurus’ "the curious happenstance of pedro pascal and din djarin", but everything is my own.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Cara Dune & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Pedro Pascal
Series: The Adventures of Din Djarin on Earth [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1616689
Comments: 27
Kudos: 80





	1. Where the hells am I?

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the curious happenstance of pedro pascal and din djarin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22040497) by [megasaurus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/megasaurus/pseuds/megasaurus). 



> This is my first Mandalorian fanfic and my first post ever on AO3 after putting it off for years (and just blatantly forgetting because I write everything on Goggle Docs). I've worked very hard on this, and I hope you all like it. Thanks megasaurus, my beta! See her original story [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22040497/chapters/52602274)

The first emotion was pure, unbridled panic. 

Din had been on the _Razor Crest_ with the Child— _his_ child, _his son_ —leaving Nevarro only about fifteen minutes after he had thought he might have lost everything—even his own life—when it happened.

He had been facing front in the cockpit, smiling lightly to himself that the kid had seemed happy to keep his Mythosaur pendant as a chew toy, when there was a bright light from somewhere outside the ship. It was so bright that it slowly ate up the white fluffy clouds and made them indistinguishable from the light blue sky, like poison slowly spreading through the body.

Din’s only thought was _what the hells?_ before everything went black and he knew no more.

Din lay on a hard surface for a few seconds, just listening to the cacophony of sounds around him, to try and gauge where he was. There were people milling about and talking, laughing, and shouting— _lots_ of people. Even though his eyes were closed, bright light shown through his eyelids, telling him that it was day and a sun was out. The place where he was was warm.

Din cracked his eyes open and blinked blurry up at the bright light that assaulted his unadjusted eyes. He was staring up at a massive skylight, sunshine streaming in through the transparisteel into the hall below. Slowly, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, several broken ribs sending fire throughout his body in protest. 

He groaned and looked around.

All around him were people dressed in all manners of strange garb. Some wore long- or short-sleeved tunics with odd graphics on them, varying shades of blue trousers, and many different colors of shoes. Some had rucksacks or bags of leather or another material in all manners of colors, while some had bandoliers across their bodies, guns holstered at their sides or across their backs. There were even some Jawas, their shorter stature and yellow or red eyes easy to pick out in the crowd. Wait, no, they weren’t Jawas, they were speaking Basic.

_Kriffing hell!_

There were _Mandalorians_ here! 

But wait, no, they were not true Mandalorians. Din squinted, and saw most of them had their helmets off, did not have full armor (whether it was Beskar or not), had only helmets, or had only the Mythosaur pendant around their necks. 

_Where in the hells am I?_

What kind of a planet mocked Mandalorians, and sold their armor and crests as…as _souvenirs_? Din’s blood boiled.

His first instinct after getting to his feet was to draw his blaster, but he paused with his hand hovering above the deadly weapon. These people weren’t after him, they were not even paying the slightest bit of attention to him. They walked around and chatted to each other as if they didn’t see him, or didn’t care that he wore the shiniest and most expensive armor. Armor that was worth _killing_ for.

Din took a deep breath, and felt his ribs protest again. He really needed to take a look at those... but the most important thing was to find out where he was. Making a slow circle in place, Din racked his eyes over his surroundings.

He had appeared in the middle of a large two-story hall, the whole ceiling made of transparisteel and a durasteel frame. The floor was shiny blue, green, and coral concrete. A large yellow sign strung between two concrete and durasteel pillars said “California Welcome” in white letters. 

_What is California?_ Din thought. _Wait...where’s the Kid?_ There was no sound of a baby crying or-or screaming for him, and everywhere Din looked, he couldn’t see a little green, pointy-eared child. The place was filled with everyone _but_ babies and toddlers. He needed to find the boy, he had just gotten him back when he thought for sure he had been lost to the Imps. He couldn’t take almost losing him again. 

Din’s first priority now became trying to find his kid. He could worry about where he had ended up _later_ . Right then his heart was in his stomach and his hands had gone clammy inside his leather gloves—his _ad’ika_ could have been trampled, or taken, or, or, just—

In his panic, he failed to notice the signs. Instead, he found himself on the floor, and another person stood over him apologizing profusely.

“I am so sorry! I wasn’t watching where I was going,” the boy said. “Here, let me help you up,” he held out a gloved hand.

_Oh, sure, I can stand on my own two feet when I've been fatally shot, but bumping into someone is my downfall._

Din ignored the proffered hand and pushed himself up, biting back a groan as he got to his feet. The space suddenly went liquidy and he stumbled a step, hands flying out to catch his balance. He had gotten up too fast.

_Let’s try this again_ , he thought, firmly planting his feet on the floor and standing still for a second, slowly straightening to his full height. The room stopped spinning after a moment.

“You gonna be alright, man?” the boy asked, concern on his young face. 

He was dressed like a...well, Din didn’t know what he was dressed like. He wore gray trousers with a matching gray undertunic, a black tunic and tabards over that, with a black leather belt to secure everything in place. Hanging from the belt was a silver _something_. It looked like Din to be a large sheathed sword or knife. On his feet were knee-high black leather boots. 

“Yeah...I’ll be fine,” Din grumbled.

“Are you here for the panel?” the boy asked. “That’s where I’m headed. I can take you to it.”

Din only nodded. Maybe this “panel” might have the information he needed to figure out where he was and _why_ in the _kriffing hells_ people thought it was alright to wear Mandalorian armor when they clearly did not follow the Creed. It was like Jango and Boba Fett all over again.

The boy led him through throngs of people heading in the same direction, up a large staircase to the second floor, and that’s when he saw the signs.

Plastered on the wall in front of them were signs pointing in the direction of “Hall K”, and underneath that, were the words “THE MANDALORIAN Celebration” written in white lettering on a fiery sunset background. Next to the words, was Din Djarin’s own armored silhouette, striding forward with purpose and pride. It was impossible to mistake it as anyone else’s. There was even the _Razor Crest_ in the mid-ground, a few Jawa sandcrawlers off to the side in the background. 

His vision tilted. _They’d found him._

Now he was frantic. Now he was scared, so so scared. _Fuck_ , he should have made sure Gideon was dead after the TIE-fighter crashed—the fucking bastard. And now his carelessness had gotten him found and kidnapped and dumped on some random ass planet gods knew where! He should have checked!, but he had only been relieved that the fighting was over, that Gideon was dead, that he was alive, that he and _his child_ were alive. All he wanted to do was go home to his ship and nurse his wounds and care for the _ad’ika_. He had wanted to make a plan for what to do next in trying to find his own kind...or the Jedi, whichever came first, the Armorer had said. Now he couldn’t do any of that.

A part of his brain thought, _No, I won’t give him up, not yet. I...can’t._ At the same time, another part of his brain ran ahead with crazy but all plausible possibilities: _They probably have the ship. They probably_ killed _the baby, just to save themselves the effort later down the road._

And then just like that, everything came rushing back to him like a fierce wind knocking the breath out of oneself. From beside him, the boy’s frantic calls to him grew clearer and louder, and he felt a hand on his pauldron. He turned his head to the kid and saw his blue eyes were large and worried, his teeth biting his lower lip.

“I’m alright,” Din muttered, clearing his throat when he heard his voice crack just a little.

Luckily, the boy didn’t notice, or if he had, he didn’t show it.

He led Din down the hall and around the corner to a set of double-doors which led into a large open space with high ceilings and bright lights. The floors were gray concrete and the walls painted white. Rows upon rows of chairs were set out facing a platform at the far end of the room, where a black-clothed table and chairs were set up. Almost all of the chairs before the stage were already filled. There must have been over five thousand people!

“Well, good meeting you,” the boy said, clapping a hand on Din’s shoulder. “Oh, and great cosplay, by the way,” and with that parting comment, he left to find a seat.

Din didn't know what a “cosplay” was, nor how he came to obtain one, but he didn't care enough to ask.

For a couple minutes, nothing happened, and then the lights dimmed, and from somewhere, spotlights shown on the stage, tracking a woman in a black dress as she walked out and stood in the center. She held a sort of long cylindrical thing that had a silver sphere at the end, and began speaking into it. 

_Oh, a microphone._

“Who's excited?” she called out to the audience. 

Everyone cheered. "I'm excited!" 

This was leaving Din utterly confused. He thought this “panel” was going to give him information, but this woman was an interviewer. Furthermore, if there were banners hung up everywhere advertising him, why had no one grabbed him yet? Why was he not being restrained and—and shot?

The woman talked about some random shit Din didn't understand. He began to focus his full attention on her though when she started calling out more people onto the stage.

“Jon Favreau!” 

Lots of cheers.

“Dave Filoni!” 

Even more cheers.

“And our wonderful actors and actresses: Gina Carano, Carl Weathers, Werner Herzog, Giancarlo Esposito, Emily Swallow, and the man of the hour, the Mandalorian himself, Pedro Pascal!"

Din only barely caught the name.

It was hard enough watching Cara walk out onto that stage. But then Carga walked on too, followed by the fucking Client of all people, Moff Gideon (now Din really saw red!), a beautiful red-headed woman he didn’t know, and then…

It was like everything turned slow-motion. There was an incessant ringing in his ears, the tinnitus as a result of all the explosions he'd been exposed to. Thunderous applause as this man—this _imposter_ —walked out onto the platform.

The interviewer asked them questions, and they all answered. But Din only paid attention to one.

“Pedro,” she flashed a grin, "for all those in the audience who don't know what this show is about, why don't you give a quick briefing?”

The imposter opened his mouth, took a breath. Seemed to contemplate for a few seconds, and then he spoke.

“It's sort of like-like—well, Star Wars mixed with a Western and a Japanese Samurai movie, right?" he spoke with his hands as much as his mouth. Flamboyant. This was not a very good imposter. "The Mandalorian, he's..." 

Din's heart skipped a beat. 

"He's this very stoic but moral bounty hunter—a fantastic warrior!—who’s hired to do a job, he's supposed to find this asset and deliver it back to a client. The show follows the Mandalorian's epic adventures, but," the imposter laughed, "but for a more mature audience.”

Cara nodded. At this point, Din didn’t even know if it was actually Cara or not. This beautiful woman was wearing a dress. Battle-hardened Cara would never wear a dress. Either these bastards were trying to impersonate him and his friends, and _the Client and Moff Gideon!_ for some reason, or he’d entered into another goddamn dimension, which frankly, was utterly ridiculous—

There _had_ been a flash of bright white light.

No alarms had been tripped. He wasn’t knocked unconscious.

_Kriff!_ He cursed under his breath. _Kriff!_ _Is that even possible?_

No. No, it wasn't. Dimensional travel was proven to be a farce. It was impossible. And yet...he stood before these people, talking to each other and cracking jokes like they were all best friends, even the Client and Moff Gideon…

Oh, gods. Maybe he had crossed dimensions. It only made sense, these people—

_Get a grip on yourself, Djarin!_ A voice in his head demanded. 

He took a slow, deep breath and funneled all of the anger, all of the fear and confusion into his hand, slowly making a fist. He held it for ten seconds, and then slowly released it, stretching out his hand again. 

Opening his eyes, Din was now able to properly focus on what the imposters and the interviewer were saying up front. He would worry about finding the Child and where he was when the panel was over, for now he would just listen and hopefully gain some clues as to what in the hells was going on.

“And now, we’re going to show you the “previously on” segment of Chapter 8, just to get your minds refreshed on what’s happened so you can ask some questions, and _then_ we’ll show you the finale,” the interviewer was saying.

The spotlights on the stage dimmed, and a large screen behind them lit up with the banner of The Mandalorian Din had seen outside the hall.

_“The Empire is gone, Mando,”_ and there was the real Greef Karga talking to Din in the Nevarro common house.

Suddenly, the screen switched to show the Child, his _ad’ika_ groaning and squinting away from the med scanner that that creepy Imperial doctor—scientist—had used on him when Din had brought him to the Imperial safe-house. 

Din’s heart squeezed painfully at the image of his son uncomfortable, somewhere out there in the galaxy, apart from _him_ , needing his protection and craving his attention.

_“This asset was of extreme importance to me,”_ the Client said in his thick accent, standing before Din in all his former-Imperial glory that his high rank and nice robes gave him.

Then the screen changed to a shot of Din walking towards the camtono of Beskar, and the Child crying out to him as he was taken away by the scientist. 

_“I had to ensure its delivery.”_

Din’s heart squeezed again at the painful reminder of his sin that he would forever carry with him in the form of his own armor, something that should (and still did a little) bring pride to him as a Mandalorian.

_“He’s not a local warlord,”_ Din’s own modulated voice rang out through the event hall. It was so strange to hear. _“He’s Imperial.”_

The screen showed Cara and him in the common house on Sorgan, when he came to ask for her help in protecting the Child. How he wished for the briefest moment that he and the little one were back on Sorgan, relaxing and playing with Winta and Omera.

_“I’m in.”_

As the recap played through, Din slowly stepped forward, not realizing it. His body just moved of its own accord. It was as if an invisible tether was pulling him toward the stage and the screen, even though he didn’t want to go and wanted to get as far away from this monstrosity as he could. Din didn’t understand, what was it? How did it exist?

_The Imps are watching me!_ Din screamed inside his own head, furious and seeing red.

Suddenly, he couldn’t breath. His lungs wouldn’t take in air properly because his chest was tight, hot and restricted, and he just needed air. He could physically feel his heart hammering against his aching ribs, quick, uneven, rapid beats that hurt, and he moved one hand to his chest, clutching at the cool steel, fingers trying to dig past it, trying to get to his heart.

When the Armorer appeared on screen, and Paz Vizla, Din’s heart sank into his stomach.

_They know about the Covert,_ everyone _knows about the Covert!_

None of them were safe anymore. They would have to split up and flee to the far edges of the galaxy. The families would be torn apart, foundlings becoming orphans once more, and couples being ripped from their other halves. They would have to fight off any who came after them, trying to eek out a survival the best they could.

Din would not stand for it. But there was nothing he could do now. He was in the grips of a panic attack. All he could think about was, _They know, they know, they know. I’m being watched! The Imps must be behind this. Oh kriff, I need...I need the Kid...I need my baby!_

By the time the recap was done, Din was feet from the stage.

He could not breath, he needed unfiltered air. For some reason, it seemed like the climate control system was not working properly in his helmet. He needed cool, fresh air. The room was liquidy again, and he fell to his knees with a _clank_ of armor, his body shaking uncontrollably.

Somewhere far away, Din heard people gasping and shouting as they took stock of him in the middle of the aisle as the lights went up once more.

Not truly with it, forgetting where he was, surrounded by people, Din lifted the helmet from his head. He sucked air between his teeth as a few strands of blood-crusted hair went with it. IG-11’s bacta spray had done its job; his brains were no longer in danger of spilling out from his crushed skull, but that didn’t mean it all didn’t still hurt like hell. A part of Din’s brain spent a moment on IG-11, mourning the only thing to know the true him, a droid like no other, who had defied all of his previous encounters with the machines, and wanted to _help_ and _protect_ instead of revert back to his instinctual programming of _killing_.

_Kuiil was right. Droids are just neutral reflections of those who imprint them. Kuiil made sure that a part of him remained when he couldn’t. Oh gods!_

Through stinging, hot tears on his face—when had he even started _crying_?—Din managed to look up at the stage where the imposters stood transfixed watching him. Through the liquid that was everything in sight, Din was able to somehow focus on one set of eyes he needed to gain answers from, the imposter, Pedro Pascal. 


	2. Discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the highly anticipated second chapter! Sorry this one took so long, I've been very busy working two jobs and wanted to wait until this chapter was perfect before posting it. Please leave a review, they truly make my day! If anyone as any ideas on how this story could pan out, please leave them in a review. I have some ideas, but I'm always open to reading more. If you want to collaborate with me on this story, great! Tell me your Tumblr or Facebook, and I will find you so we can message back and forth if that is more comfortable for you.

_Thursday, 26 December 2019_

There were great perks to being an actor, Pedro thought as he entered the Los Angeles Convention Center. One of them was meeting the fans of _The Mandalorian_ , who were so _cool_ , and showed their love and support in spades. Yes, there were plenty of fans that could be over-the-top and crazy, but ninety-five percent meant well and genuinely cared about the show and the actors themselves, which warmed Pedro’s heart. He loved seeing all the detailed costumes cosplayers came up with, and the fan art that amateur artists made, expressing their love for the show in their own way. Others made crocheted or knitted Baby Yodas, or 3D-printed props and jewelry. 

Pedro was meeting Gina Carano, Carl Weathers, Werner Herzog, and Emily Swallow for _The Mandalorian_ panel to celebrate the first season finale. There would be a discussion, and then a Q&A session followed by a sneak peek viewing of the finale for a lucky 6,300 fans. The finale would premiere on Disney+ the next day to the general public. 

Pedro went up to the reservation center on the ground floor of the South Hall lobby to check-in, not knowing that his life would change in a way he would never expect—again—but for the better. 

  
  


Pedro jumped off the stage and landed with knees bent, heels thrumming with pain for a moment as he absorbed the shock of landing. Without a second thought, he was at the cosplayer’s side and kneeling down in front of him. 

When he’d shakenly taken off that helmet, and dropped it on the floor with a _twang_ of real steel, Pedro and everyone else in the event hall gasped and mouths dropped. For there, in front of them, was a man who looked _exactly_ like Pedro Pascal, only clean-shaven and with many abrasions from his helmet hitting and scraping his face from blows, blood from a bloody nose dried on his philtrum. His long, straight brown hair was sticking up in places, and strands were glued to his face with sweat. 

_Wounds Din got from the battle on Nevarro in Chapter 8,_ Pedro thought. _Their placement is exact. How did he get those? The finale doesn’t air until tomorrow, and I know for a fact that Disney's done a great job keeping stills from being leaked._

When the man’s deep brown eyes searched the stage and shakily landed on Pedro’s own, the actor knew without a doubt that the man wearing Mandalorian armor was in fact Din Djarin. The _real Din Djarin_ . The look in his eyes held no room for doubt: The usual stoic and closed-off, calm, and stalwart bounty hunter could not tame the rush of emotions flooding through him any longer. He was scared, oh so very scared, and confused, and pleading for help. For _Pedro_ to help him. He was desperate. This wasn’t some crazy cosplayer who had taken the cosplaying too far.

So that’s what Pedro did. He helped—as best he could. A part of his brain reminded him that this was impossible, and utterly crazy, that he was only a fictional character and there was no way that he could exist, but he pushed those thoughts aside for another time.

“This doesn’t count,” he whispered sternly to the Mandalorian in front of him, a warm hand gently cupping his cheek so the man would look up at him. 

Beneath his fingers, Pedro felt just the hint of stubble along the jaw. The large abrasions going from lip to chin, over the bridge of the nose, and above his right eyebrow were not thick and globby like professional makeup artist’s paint and did not smear, but were slightly bloody and raw, real. The nosebleed had already started to clot. 

Against his own will, he found himself leaning forward until his forehead ever so gently touched the man’s, his hands falling to grasp the other man’s gloved ones and giving them a comforting squeeze. Pedro only hoped the act somehow reassured the man that he would be alright. He knew it reassured himself. 

Next to him, Pedro grabbed the truly heavy helmet off the floor and gently slid it back over the man’s face. The real Beskar steel was cold and smooth in his hands, shiny in places and smudged in others from soot and sand from the battle on Nevarro. Like the Client had said, it was truly beautiful craftsmanship. 

“I...I...The only way you would believe me...” the man gasped in whispers.

It was so strange hearing Pedro’s own modulated voice—answering him!, and this time not from a playback screen.

“Help me,” the man pleaded, voice breaking. 

The break conveyed all the worry and fear that the man felt, and it tugged at Pedro’s heart.

Suddenly, the man keeled over, unconscious.

With a grunt of strain, Pedro caught him under the armpits and gently laid him on the cold concrete floor. He turned to look over his shoulder, back to the others on the stage.

“Call an ambulance!” 

He had no idea what to do next, how to properly take care of a battle victim. Even though the first aid room had first aid supplies, he knew they would not be enough to properly treat him. If he _was_ the real Mandalorian, Pedro knew from extra notes director Taika Waititi had told him, that he would have a concussion and headache, several broken and sprained ribs, a torn rotator cuff in his left shoulder from the fight with Moff Gideon’s TIE-fighter, and a laceration on his leg from shrapnel from the common house, not to mention a myriad of small cuts and bruises all over his body. 

* * *

Gina bit her bottom lip and made her decision, jogging to the stage steps and running down. She stopped next to Pedro and kneeled down, too, putting a soft hand on the unconscious man’s pauldron-clad shoulder.

When he had taken off the helmet and looked up at everyone on stage, Gina had gasped along with everyone else. Tears had immediately sprung to her eyes and _Oh no, oh God!_ ran through her mind. This man had all the marks of battle from Chapter 8, when it hadn’t even premiered yet! How did he look so much like Pedro, if he were not Din Djarin? The rational part of her brain told her otherwise, but another voice deep within her whispered that it was truly _the_ Mandalorian. 

Gina reached a hand back behind the man’s head, to the lower right of where the base of the skull connected to the neck. She felt no deep laceration, no brain matter and no warm, sticky blood on her hand, only swollen tissue that was no doubt purple and tender to the touch. She pulled her hand away to show Pedro.

“No open wound, only dried blood—bacta must be a real thing. Feel for yourself.”

Pedro did. “Yeah, you’re right,” he whispered, eyes staring down as he felt the neck in concentration, eyes moving but not looking at anything in particular as his mind connected the dots.

Next Gina, as gently as she could, stuck a hand down in between the black neck guard and his hot neck in search of a black leather cord. She found none, just warm, muscle-hardened skin that was slightly damp from sweat and exertion.

“The Mythosaur necklace is gone,” she whispered to Pedro. 

_He gave it to the little one,_ Pedro couldn’t help but think, remembering the finale. 

“We need another reason,” he muttered to himself. Looking down at the man, he swept his eyes from head to toe, trying to find something else that would prove to them that he wasn’t just another cosplayer, and his eyes landed on the blaster pistol in the holster at his hip. “If he’s real, he’ll have real plasma in there.”

“Do you even know what real plasma looks like?” Gina hissed incredulously.

“No, but I’m still gonna check.”

With practised ease, Pedro slid the gun from the holster and took out the magazine. Sitting inside were glowing, bright red cartridges of red plasma, the most common bolts used. Nothing in the real world he knew glowed with that same ultraviolet intensity. He tipped it slightly to show Gina. Next, he unsheathed the vibroblade knife from Din’s boot and activated it. It started to buzz, thrum, and glow ember-hot from the ultrasonic vibrations that made it a more effective cutting tool and melee weapon than a standard blade.

“Oh, shit...” she groaned. 

“It’s him,” he replied with an air of finality. “Healed head injury, no necklace, real plasma in the blaster, and real vibroblade. It must be. The face wounds look fresh and still tender.” 

He sheathed the knife. 

Gina nodded, biting her lip again. _What are we gonna do?!_

“Guys, one of the event staff called an ambulance, it’ll be here in a few minutes.” The voice of Emily Swallow reached their ears, coming from close behind them.

Pedro nodded.

“Thanks,”

“Is it him?” Emily’s voice broke, even though her warm, delicate hand was comforting on Pedro’s shoulder.

He nodded again. “It is. Healing head injury, perfect placement of the face abrasions, real plasma in the blaster and vibroblade knife, and no Mythosaur necklace… Yeah, it’s him.”

Emily nodded in finality and turned, swiftly jogging back up to the stage. She grabbed her microphone off the table and turned to the audience.

“Everyone, please listen!” she demanded in her best Armorer’s voice. “Until we identify this man—this John Doe, you will act as if he is a true Mandalorian, thus respecting his hurt condition and his identity. I want all of your phones and mobile devices turned off, any photos or videos you’ve taken in the last few minutes deleted. Do you understand? This is not some sort of act we’ve put together for your entertainment.”

There was loud murmuring from fans as their affirmations bled together in a “yes,” and a “yeah.” There was movement from them as they did as she bid. 

Emily was not naïve, though. She knew that there would be a handful of fans who did not obey, and would leak the photos out to various social media platforms. It would be a miracle if the fans proved themselves to be so loyal that no photos appeared at all. 

“Thank you,” she set down the microphone, joining the other actors who had huddled together with Anne, the interviewer. 

“Who is he, do we know?” Dave asked.

“It’s Din Djarin,” Emily answered somberly.

“Ha!” Jon laughed. “That’s impossible. It’s just some zealous fan looking to be in the spotlight for his fifteen minutes of fame.”

Emily shook her head. Her gut was telling her otherwise.

Carl saw Emily’s expression. “You really think it’s the Mandalorian?” 

“I do,” she said slowly.

“Do we want to continue the panel and viewing?” Anne spoke up after an awkward moment of silence where no one knew what else to say.

“I say we should,” Carl said quietly, nodding. “These people paid lots of money to be the 6,300 to get a sneak peek, put a lot of time and effort into their costumes and stuff.”

Besides him, Werner Herzog nodded. “I agree. It is a shame that this young man,” he gestured to Din lying on the floor, “will not be able to see it, but why disappoint and waste so many more people’s time and money for the sake of one individual?”

Emily nodded in agreement. He had a point.

Anne sighed deeply and nodded. “Alright, then, we’ll continue, _after_ the man’s been taken away, of course.”

Everyone nodded.

Dave Filoni went down to where Pedro was sitting with the cosplayer—he refused to believe that the man was Din Djarin, that was just impossible, no way. He kneeled down next to Pedro, who had the man’s helmet-covered head in his lap. He was staring down at the man, his eyes glossy as he stared far away, lost in thought.

“Pedro?” Dave put a hand on his arm.

He looked up, the gloss leaving his eyes instantly. “Yeah?”

“I’ve been thinking, to stave off questions from paramedics and hospital staff, we need to come up with a cover story for who this man is. Just for now. If it turns out not to be...Mando...we can let authorities try and find his identity and any family he has.”

Pedro swallowed. “What did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking we could call him Dustin, that way no one would bat an eye if we called him Din, they would just think it’s a nickname for Dustin. His full name could be Dustin Lanter.”

Pedro had to let a small grin loose at that. _Lanter, after Matt Lanter who plays Anakin Skywalker in TCW, I like it._

He nodded. “Okay.”

“And I’m sure Disney will pay for all the hospital and medical bills, since this happened during a _Star Wars_ event and they will probably want to keep it hush hush, at least until we can identify him,” Dave went on.

Pedro nodded again. “Okay. Great.”

* * *

Once the paramedics arrived, Pedro jumped in the back of the ambulance to accompany Din to the hospital and keep him calm in case he woke up while enroute. Pedro could hear the sad “awww’s” of the fans from the Hall K loading dock where the ambulance had parked, disappointed that the star of the show wouldn’t be there for the panel. 

He did feel bad. These people had come to see the finale of the show, but most importantly had come to see _him._ Pedro wasn’t ignorant, he knew he was a sex symbol, and that one-third of the fans thought him a good actor and loved whatever character he played. 

But Pedro also wanted to make sure that Din got the best care available, and especially, that no one took off his helmet. The Creed was one of the most important things to Din. It combined the modesty that his homeworld culture showed in their dress, and the modesty and warrior-culture of the Mandalorians. As a Foundling, he always thought he had to prove himself as a Mandalorian to those who grew up in the Way, and were descended from great clans—like Paz Vizla, and he felt like he owed the Mandalorians everything because they rescued him as a child, and as such, desired to be _the best_ Mandalorian, and that meant adhering to the Creed in every way, very ardently. Not taking off one’s helmet for anyone or anything could also just be the way that The Tribe adhered to the Creed, every covert had their own views and interpretations on the Creed, if he compared _The Mandalorian_ to _Star Wars: Rebels_. At least, that’s what Pedro thought could be the reasons why Din never wanted to take the helmet off. 

“What’s his name?” Paramedic Smith asked Pedro, currently trying to find a vein to put in an IV drip.

Din was strapped to a bright yellow backboard, which was on a collapsible gurney, his helmeted-head looking straight up at the ceiling. It was impossible to tell if he was awake or not. Pedro sat on a blue padded bench that was built into the wall of the truck, while the paramedic sat on a chair at Din’s head. All around them were built-ins of supply drawers, a small counter where a laptop and vital signs monitor sat, an IV pole hook screwed to the wall. Bright fluorescent lights illuminated the space from above like stage lights.

“Dustin Lanter, he’s one of my stunt doubles. He was out shooting on set, so I have no idea how or why he came to the Convention Center, so far away,” Pedro said in explanation, eyes trained on Din’s helmet-clad head.

She nodded and went to remove the helmet.

“No,” Pedro held out a hand to stop her. “Don’t. There’s nothing wrong with his head, we made sure of that right away when we saw him.” 

The paramedic’s eyebrows scrunched in confusion, but she let it go, moving her attention to rack down Din’s body in search of visible injuries. Her eyes landed on the leg laceration. Pulling out a pair of scissors from her coat pocket, she stepped over to another seat at his side so she cut away the fabric of the gray flight suit surrounding the gash to better examine it.

As she was starting to disinfect and dress it with saline, antibiotic cream, and gauze pads, Din woke up.

“Wh-where…” he whispered, his voice hoarse and gravily as he slowly turned his head to see his surroundings. He tried lifting his head.

Both Pedro and Paramedic Smith put a hand on his shoulders and gently pushed him back down.

“It’s okay, Din,” Pedro said. “We’re on our way to the hospital to get you checked out. Don’t worry, you’re safe. No one’s gonna take off the helmet.” He knew that would be Din’s chief concern, being surrounded by so many people who did not understand who he was or his religious observances. 

Pedro’s heart went out to the man, probably scared stiff at his strange surroundings, and the mention of hospitals. No one really liked them, as even though they were primarily a place of healing, they were also a place of death and dying.

Din didn’t answer, just stayed staring up at the ceiling of the ambulance. In the few minutes before they pulled up to the ambulance bay, Pedro couldn’t tell if he had fallen unconscious again or not. Hopefully, it was the latter.

Pedro jumped out after the gurney once the ambulance had come to a halt in front of Good Samaritan Hospital’s ambulance bay doors. Paramedic Smith rushed him into the E.R. while her partner went to the nurse’s station to fill out paperwork. Din was taken to a private trauma room to be further assessed by the doctors there. 

_Guess Dave or Jon called ahead_ , Pedro thought. 

The room was painted a warm yellow and had white linoleum flooring. Florescent ceiling lights and a large, movable LED surgery light illuminated another gurney waiting in the center of the space to receive Din, a waiting room chair to one side. On the wall above the gurney was a vital signs monitor along with many different power outlets and switches, all color-coded. In the corner by the door was a large utility sink for the doctors and nurses to wash their hands, and in the opposite corner was a large metal supply cart with cabinets. 

_No doubt one of these cabinets holds a defibrillator,_ Pedro thought with pessimism. 

All of the room’s furniture Pedro noticed in a split second, then his attention was back fully on Din.

“What do we got?” a male E.R. doctor wearing green scrubs with light brown hair and green eyes asked, coming up to the bed while putting on blue surgical gloves.

“A stunt double fell from a height, no bleeding or swelling on his head, thank God. Gave him an IV enroute, and flushed and bandaged his leg laceration,” Paramedic Smith briefed.

“Alright, let’s check for internal bleeding first,” the doctor ordered.

“I can help with that,” Pedro jumped in. 

The nurses and doctor looked at him with surprise, but the doctor shrugged and motioned for his nurses to let Pedro help. They got to work removing Din’s armor. It took a few minutes to locate all the buckles, but with Pedro’s help, it went quite smoothly. The full cuirass was sat on the single chair in the room, out of the way, only leaving Din's helmet on.

As they worked, the doctor spoke up, “You’re Pedro Pascal.”

Pedro nodded. “Yes.”

“Dr. Michael Powers. I saw you in _Game of Thrones._ Good job,” he said, impressed. 

“Thank you.”

Dr. Powers palpated the four quadrants of the stomach to check for internal bleeding, and found none. He then felt all of Din’s major joints and muscles in the body, checking for any dislocations or fractures that the armor could have hid. There were none except for the torn rotator cuff in his left shoulder, which Dr. Powers confirmed. 

“Do you know what happened, Mr. Pascal?” the doctor looked up at Pedro.

Pedro nodded. “Yes. This is one of my stunt doubles, Din. His full name is Dustin Lanter, but everyone calls him Din. He was on set when he fell from a height. I wasn’t there so I don’t know everything, but somehow he made it to the Convention Center downtown where I was,” he shook his head, putting on an act to try and convince the medical staff that he was just as shocked and confused as everyone else. 

In reality, he was, but for a whole bunch of other reasons.

“He seemed pretty out of it. Probably has sprained ribs and a concussion, at the least.” Pedro ended.

“Alright,” Dr. Powers nodded, moving to take off Din’s helmet.

“Please don’t,” Pedro said, moving to try and stop the man but stilled inches from his sterile, gloved hands. “His religious observances require him to keep his head covered. Only I can take off the helmet, as we look so much alike, it’s not really breaking them. Let me put...a towel or something over his face.” 

_Wow, where did that idea come from?_ A part of Pedro’s brain thought. _Actor,_ another, more sing-song voice reminded.

Dr. Powers raised his eyebrows in surprise, but didn’t question him any further at the odd request, but probably wanted to. 

It was rare in the world that a man did not want to show his face for religious reasons. Usually only Tuareg Berber Muslim men wore a headcovering that covered everything except their eyes, a _tagelmust_. And they only lived in deserts, never in densely populated places.

“Okay,” Dr. Powers agreed.

“Thank you,” Din’s hoarse voice surprised everyone in the room, and the doctor, nurses, and Pedro looked down at him. 

_He’s still awake, good._

“Din, I’m Dr. Powers, do you know where you are?”

Din barely shook his head. “No.”

“You’re at Good Samaritan Hospital. You had a nasty fall from set. I’m going to be looking after you for right now,” the doctor addressed Din, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Your friend, Mr. Pascal here, is going to take your helmet off and put a towel over your face. We’ll all turn our backs.”

“...Okay.” 

A nurse—O. Blum—handed Dr. Powers an extra white towel from a cupboard, and he handed it to Pedro across the gurney.

Pedro took the helmet off and set it on the counter. He gently—almost reverently—placed the towel over Din’s face, almost as if he were covering up a dead person near to him, or a Christian priest covering the wine chalice at Mass.

“You can turn around now,” Pedro looked up at the medical staff.

They did.

“I want to do a quick neurological exam that’s going to assess for a concussion. It’s going to test your vision, hearing, strength, balance, coordination, and reflexes, and also your cognitive skills. Have you ever had a concussion before?” Dr. Powers said.

“Probably.” 

Pedro saw a nurse in the corner write that down on Din’s chart, then move to a concussion exam sheet.

“I’m going to check your eyes and pupils with this ophthalmoscope,” Dr. Powers took from the wall a black instrument a little bit bigger than a code cylinder. 

“No. That requires showing my face,” Din said.

Both Dr. Powers and Pedro frowned. He was right.

“How about I do it?” Pedro thought after a tense second. 

“You’re not a doctor.”

“No, but you can tell me what to look for,” Pedro pressed. He knew this exam was important and needed to be done with the most detail possible.

The doctor sighed, “Alright.” the cool metal of the instrument was put into his hand. “Flash the light in his eyes to check for light sensitivity and vision loss. Then use your hand to check for partial vision loss by moving it, starting directly in front of him out towards his blind spots. There are a few questions that I can ask.”

Pedro nodded. “Okay.”

The doctor and nurses turned their backs once again and one flicked off the lights, throwing the space into darkness save for a little light coming through the privacy curtain that was blocking the sliding doors into the room. Din was adamant that he could sit up on the gurney by himself despite a bad shoulder. 

Din took the towel off and set it on the gurney next to himself. There was guarded fear in Din eyes and he tracked Pedro’s every move. His stiff posture was a major tell that he was uneasy and ready to fight at the slightest provocation. 

“Easy,” Pedro whispered in a gentle voice, just loud enough for Din to hear. “You’re okay. You’re safe.” His eyes added, _Trust me. Just trust me._ Although Pedro thought, _Even though you have_ no reason _to trust me, and just met me about ten minutes ago._

Luckily, Din nodded. At his side, his gloved hand reached up from where it had been resting on the gurney by his hip.

Pedro noticed and grasped it, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He nodded back, an understanding frown on his face. He hated to see anyone so scared and in pain.

He reluctantly let go and got started on the test, first shining the light into Din’s eyes as instructed, keeping the beam steady, and watched as Din flinched severely and squinted until his eyes were slits. He did that to both eyes for a couple of seconds. 

“Definitely has sensitivity to light,” Pedro said to Dr. Powers.

“Alright. Can we have the lights back on, please?”

A moment later, the room was flooded with artificial light once more, and to both Pedro’s and Din’s relief, the doctor and nurses remained with their backs to them. 

“Now check his blind spots.”

Pedro did. Din was easily able to track his hands only moving his eyes, keeping his head steady and straight. 

“Do you have blurred or double vision, Din?” Dr. Powers asked.

“Blurry vision,” Din replied.

“Any eye pain?”

“A little. Feels like it’s coming from behind my left eye.”

“Okay.”

There was furious scribbling by the nurse with the exam sheet.

“My head’s pounding. Like I have a headache the size of a bantha,” Din continued.

It took all Pedro had not to laugh. He’d never heard that one before.

Next, Dr. Powers asked Din to whistle, smile, and clench his teeth. Din tried but could not whistle, and when he smiled and clenched his teeth, he had an overbite that Pedro knew wasn’t right. 

They shared the same face, after all.

“What do you remember before you fell, Din?” 

“Uh...I was...on my ship,” Din tried to think. 

“Do you remember what you were doing on the ship?” If Dr. Powers found Din’s answer odd, he did not let it show.

“Yeah, I was...waiting to calculate coordinates to jump to hyperspace.”

 _Oh no._ Pedro thought. _He doesn’t know that he and everyone else is fictional, and that he’s answering as if he were really a stunt double and stuck in character. Hopefully, Doc doesn’t ask any more questions._

“Is that true, Pedro?” Dr. Powers asked. “Was he scheduled to do that today?”

“Uh, yeah,” Pedro lied. It was scary how easily he could lie and not feel remorse for doing so in that instance. He just wanted Din better and healed.

He saw Din’s eyebrows scrunch in confusion. All this was going straight over his head. That was okay, though, he would explain everything soon when they were alone.

Din’s helmet was returned to him and Dr. Powers was able to finish the rest of the exam himself. He was allowed to touch Din’s neck, and told him that he was checking the muscles required to move the head. Next, Din was asked to do some basic hand and arm movements to check for tremors, coordination, position sense, and motor weakness. Din had tremors, and when asked to resist the doctor’s hands pushing his own up or down, Din’s muscles gave out rather easily. 

“Well, the last test is a hearing test, but you're not trained to conduct that, Pedro. It’s a good thing, because we don’t even need it. From what we’ve done, it’s evident you have a concussion, Din,” Dr. Powers said. “The eye pain and light sensitivity is probably due to your post-concussion headache.” 

A nurse took Din to X-ray, where it was confirmed that he did have a few broken ribs and a left rotator cuff tear in three places. They were able to get him into surgery to repair it surprisingly quickly, but Pedro had no doubt that Dr. Powers had pushed Din up to the front of the surgery schedule due to his fame and importance as a stunt double.

After the surgery, he would have to wear a bulky, specially made sling for four to six weeks and take quite a bit of pain medication, which meant that he would have to be monitored around the clock and not go anywhere. Sadly, his dignity would be shattered because someone would have to help him shower, shave, and reapply clean dressings. 

_He’s gonna hate this,_ Pedro thought as he sunk into a waiting room chair. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a fun chapter to write, although the ending was a bit hard. The hospital that Din ends up at is real, and is called Good Samaritan Hospital, about eight minutes away from the Los Angeles Convention Center by car. Matt Lanter is an awesome Anakin Skywalker, and if any of you have seen The Clone Wars animated series, you’ll agree with me. Go watch it on Disney+. Please take a moment to leave a review, I reply to all, and each one makes my day. Literally!  
> See [here](https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/broken-or-bruised-ribs/) for what to do for broken ribs. See [, ](https://www.theraspecs.com/blog/common-eye-symptoms-concussion/)[here](http://subtlebraininjury.com/neurological-exam-after-concussion/), and [here](https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/concussion/diagnosis-treatment/drc-20355600) for concussion and tests. See [this Tumblr post](https://vaguely-concerned.tumblr.com/post/190462187777/i-have-been-thinking-about-just-how-viciously-din) for the theory I got on Din and Paz Vizla. See [this Tumblr post](https://apprenticenanoswarm.tumblr.com/post/190159688949/ah-jeez-not-another-take-on-the-helmet-thing) for why Din adheres to the Creed so ardently. See [this amazing Tumblr theory](https://cass-cain-deserves-better.tumblr.com/post/190456214799/okay-so-the-mandalorian-has-improved-the-concept) on Death Watch and Duchess Satine. Tumblr fans have just great theories and character studies for this show!


	3. Do You Believe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for those who have left reviews, they warm my heart to know that my story is liked (maybe loved?) by even a few people. I've been writing for over 10 years (thanks to harrypotterfanfiction.net), and no one has wanted to read my work until I got the courage to FINALLY create an AO3 account and post my own story. If you like The Mandalorian, stay tuned for another Star Wars story that I will eventually post—life is insane right now—as well as Harry Potter, Downton Abbey, Doctor Who, Supernatural, Sense8, Twilight, and more. I also write my own historical fiction under the pen name Grey Quill and Black Ink.
> 
> If any of you have ideas on where you would like this story to go, please don't hesitate to leave them in a review! I read all reviews and reply.

Pedro sat in Din’s private hospital room on the first floor of the Wilshire building of the Good Samaritan Hospital campus, waiting for the man to wake up. Din was laid in a hospital bed dressed in a blue polka dot hospital gown, and covered by white sheets and a blue knitted blanket. Large white bandages covered his bare left shoulder and secured it to his side with a simple bandage so that he could not move it. 

With the amount of painkillers he was on, Pedro doubted he could even _feel_ the arm. 

Over his face was a white hand towel Pedro had found in the adjoining bathroom. He figured Din would be more comfortable sleeping with the helmet off, which sat on the nightstand table. The extra pressure of the helmet would no doubt add to his headache, too. Luckily, the doctors had done as both Pedro and Din asked, and had kept his face covered during the lengthy surgery.

It was hard for Pedro to see the man lying there as a battle-hardened bounty hunter with great skills and a tough shell he showed to the world. Now, he just looked vulnerable, _too_ vulnerable for Pedro’s liking. 

The whole hospital room was dark, save for a few small lights on the machine panel surrounding the bed, and a table lamp on a counter by the door. It was early evening now, and the setting sun aided the peaceful atmosphere of the room. Pedro had made sure to close the blinds on the door and window facing the hallway, so that if Din woke up and took off the towel, no passersby would catch sight of his face. Pedro sat in an upholstered chair at the foot of the bed. He would switch from checking his black iPhone every so often to watching Din sleep, hoping that _this second_ would be the moment Din would wake up.

The time during and immediately after Din’s surgery provided ample time for Pedro to get lost in thought thinking about recent events.

“Do you believe it’s him?” Jon had asked quietly while they had waited in the waiting room after the panel had ended and some of the others had joined Pedro. “How do you know?”

While Pedro nursed a vending machine coffee—all the medical TV shows didn’t exaggerate, it really _was_ bad coffee—he told him the four reasons Gina and himself had found on Din’s person, which got Jon to be quiet and think pensively on their situation. Pedro knew that he wouldn’t fully believe until he met Din in person, which was fine with him. He knew what he and Gina believed—and maybe Emily—and that was enough for now. He also told Jon that he just had a strong gut feeling, and from either side of him, Gina and Emily agreed. There was just something about this whole thing that left no doubt in their minds that the mysterious man was Din Djarin.

One of the major things Pedro also thought about, was what they were going to do with Din when he got out of the hospital.

 _He’ll stay with me_ , Pedro thought. _He needs four to six weeks in a sling for his shoulder, so he can’t really do much, and the first few days will have to be spent in darkness sleeping, to help heal his brain after the concussion. I have an extra room, and while I don’t know if he likes dogs or not, Edgar and him will just have to learn to get along. I’ll teach him all about Earth...and about the show._

That last thought filled Pedro with dread. He knew he couldn’t hide it forever.

* * *

The first time he awoke, it was to hushed voices around him. A large, warm hand was on his head, stroking his hair in slow, short strokes.

_That feels...nice._

“You truly believe this man?” the thick accent of the Client was easily picked out from the rest of the voices.

Din’s heart rate immediately sky-rocketed. _He knows my name!_

What was the Client doing there? What had happened? Why was he so sluggish and numb?

He tried to sit up but found his body was as heavy as lead. The somewhat soft surface he was lying on was like a magnet, pulling him back down.

“No, no, no, Din,” his own voice came to his right ear.

_What?!_

“It’s okay. You’re safe. Lie back down. It’s only Werner. He’s not the Client, I promise.” 

A strong hand on his right shoulder gently but firmly pushed him back down.

“I won’t hurt you, young man,” the Client’s voice said, softly. “I only wanted to make sure you were alright after the surgery. I will leave now and let you rest.”

There was the sound of a door opening and closing gently.

Din relaxed a fraction.

The hand on his head did not leave, only continued to stroke his hair. It was very soothing and relaxing, but also disconcerting. No one had done that since his father-figure before he had taken the Creed. How he yearned for his father-figure at that moment. Better yet, his parents. His mother would be the one to stroke his hair, and his father would be the one to reassure him in his soft-spoken manner.

“You’re alright, Din,” a new male’s voice spoke quietly to Din’s left. “You’re safe. The surgery’s over, you did good.” The man went so far as to lean over and press a kiss to Din’s covered forehead. 

His brain simultaneously thought, _Who is this man who knows me so well?_ And _What’s on my head if not my helmet?_

Darkness rushed to surround him, and Din knew no more, falling willingly back into the blissful, warm arms of sleep.

  
  


The second time he awoke, he found himself immediately more aware and feeling well-rested, but still slightly groggy. 

The first thing he was aware of was the beeping. A machine somewhere close to his head was beeping in a steady rhythm. What was it? Surprisingly, Din didn’t find it annoying. 

The next thing he was aware of was the darkness on the underside of his eyelids, with just a little bit of light creeping in from the left. 

The third was the scratchy sheets over his body and the sterile smell to his surroundings. There was no light pressure on his body from his armor—someone had taken it off—and opening his eyelids a crack, he was met with a cloth over his face. Breathing in, he could smell the clean smell it had. Definitely not his helmet, then. Not being in armor was an intense discomfort.

Where _was_ his critical piece of armor? Who had removed it? Who had seen his face? _He’d broken the Creed!_

The last thing that raised his discomfort level over the top was the distinct lack of feeling his left arm and shoulder. Why? What happened? He needed both his arms. The thought of himself being defenseless made Din’s stomach churn. He was prey now, no longer the hunter. 

_Where am I?_ He needed to know.

Din opened his eyes fully underneath the material and met the dark but slightly lighted rough texture of a towel over his face. There must be a light on in the room because he could see what color the towel was, which was white.

He shifted his head just a fraction to see if it caused him pain. It did not. 

_That’s good._

There was hurried movement from somewhere at his feet, and then a warm, strong hand was in his right where it lay at his side, giving it a squeeze. 

_Even his hands had been stripped of his leather gloves._

“Din?” his own rich voice asked quietly, softly. “You’re awake.”

 _What?! Who is this?_ He only nodded, his brain working madly to try and come up with an answer as to who was with him and why he had his voice.

“W-who?...Where am I?” Din asked, flinching at the sound of his own gravelly voice. His throat was dry and scratchy from lack of use.

The mysterious man must have anticipated Din’s needs, for he said, “Here. It’s a cup of water with a straw. Drink.” 

The hard, slightly rough material of the straw met Din’s lips, and he opened his mouth to suck on it. Blissfully cold water ran into his mouth and he found himself greedily drinking it up.

“Slowly,” the man chuckled. 

He slowed down, and then pulled his head away when he was sated. 

There was a light _thunk_ as the cup was set down on a hard surface to Din’s right. The warm hand resumed its place in Din’s own.

“My name’s Pedro Pascal,” the man started. “Do you remember how you first saw me?” he asked gently.

It took a moment, but then everything came rushing back in flashes of memory. He had appeared in a strange, light-filled hall; humans, fake Mandalorians, and Jawas milling about. He had followed a boy into another hall filled with people in front of a raised platform—his brain couldn’t think of the correct word even though he knew he knew it. There had been a woman announcing people’s names, and Cara Dune, Greef Karga, The Client, and Moff Gideon had been among them—though they weren’t _really_ his friends and enemies—including this Pedro Pascal, the man who looked like _him._ What was that word he had used?

He remembered the screen, and how it had shown his life over the past month or so. Getting the job to hunt down The Asset, gaining new Beskar armor, taking the Child and fighting off Guild members to escape Nevarro, returning to that planet with Cara and Kuiil, and fighting Moff Gideon. 

He tried to remember further, but was only met with blackness. He _couldn’t_ remember.

“How did I get here? Where am I?” he asked instead. “Who took off my helmet? It’s against the Creed!” anger leaked into his voice.

“You’re in a hospital. You had to have surgery on your shoulder. Don’t worry, no one saw your face. I made sure of it,” Pedro was quick to reassure. “I gave your name as Dustin Lanter, a fake stunt double of mine. And, uh...I took off the helmet, I thought you would be more comfortable,” this Pedro man sheepishly admitted.

“Oh.” He thought for a moment and found he didn’t really mind. 

Was he really breaking the Creed if the man who had done it looked _exactly_ like him? It could be like looking into a mirror. 

There was movement from Din’s left, someone getting to their feet. A male voice said, “Well, I should get going, Pedro. Just wanted to check in and make sure Din woke up okay.” This new man had a light accent to his voice.

“Yeah, alright,” Pedro’s hand left Din’s, and he heard the man cross over to the other side of the bed and hug the other man, lightly slapping him on the back in a friendly manner.

“Keep me posted, alright? You have Alex’s number?”

“Yeah, of course. And yes, I do,” Pedro reminded.

“Good. Take care of him, man.”

“You don’t need to tell me, ‘Dad.’” Din could hear the smile in Pedro’s voice.

The other man chuckled. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

A door opened and closed with a soft _snap_.

Pedro resumed his seat next to Din’s side and asked, “Can I remove this?”

Din figured he was talking about the towel over his face. “Is there anyone else in the room I should know about?” he answered with his own question, slightly frustrated that he hadn’t been able to figure out that they were not alone.

“No, it’s just you and me. And since we share the same face, it...might not be breaking the Creed,” Pedro ended up posing the statement as a question.

Now Din really thought. _Was_ it breaking the Creed? It would be, as Pedro was a completely different person than himself, but since they did share the same face, Din guessed he could make an exception. His gut was screaming at him not to let this man see his face, but he ignored it. He needed help, from someone, _anyone_ , and who better than the strange man who had his face? 

Din nodded.

“Okay, good.”

With a fast swipe, the towel was gone from Din’s face, and he could see his surroundings for the first time.

He was indeed in some sort of med bay room, although it was like none he had ever been in. He was lying in a large bed with railings on the sides, the right one collapsed against the side and the head propped up so that he laid at an obtuse angle. A thin tube was sticking out of his arm and connected to a bag on a pole. A monitor on a wheeling stand showed a green line that peaked every half-second or so, and that was where the beeping was coming from. A lighted table lamp was next to the door, the door’s horizontal blinds closed so no one could peer in and Din could not see what lay beyond. The solitary window to the outside world showed a setting sun, which was quite beautiful, composed of all shades of orange over tall black objects that could be skyscrapers off in the distance. A large cushioned armchair was next to a table, and a door close by to it was closed. _Where did that lead?_ Din found himself thinking for only a second. On the armchair was Din’s armor, piled up neatly though still filthy, his gray flight suit peeking out from the bottom. Another upholstered chair had been pulled to Din’s right, where Pedro Pascal sat.

 _The...man who has my face. What is that word again? I can’t think of it_ , Din thought. 

_It’s like looking into a mirror...almost._

The man looked exactly like Din, with the same long, wavy light brown hair, distinctive cheekbones, dark brown eyes, muscular build, and fair skin. The only differences were that he had a moustache, a little scruff on the chin, and long sideburns. The whole thing made him look like he had a patchy, thin beard. His deep brown eyes were filled with concern. He wore the same clothes Din had first seen him in, a warm, medium orange button-up shirt and black trousers. 

“Hi,” he said, a small smile stretching his lips. 

“Hello,” Din replied, feeling a little foolish. He looked down, anywhere but at the man sitting next to him. “What is this?” he lifted his arm with the tube in it.

It was a little uncomfortable, but not terribly so. He could easily ignore it.

“It’s an IV, intravenous drip-feed. It’s giving you morphine, a type of painkiller for your shoulder,” Pedro explained. 

Randomly, Din’s brain went back to the mysterious man that had been with them when he had woken up. “Who was that man? Is he your father?”

“Oh, no. Although he acts like it sometimes. He’s just a friend, another actor named Bernard Bullen.”

“Actor?” _Like in entertainment?_

Just then, there came a knock at the door.

Both Pedro’s and Din’s heads whipped around to the closed door. 

“Pedro? It’s Gina, can I come in?” a female’s husky voice carried through the thick wood.

 _Cara,_ Din’s brain supplied immediately. _Why does she sound like Cara, let alone look like her?_

Pedro gently prodded Din’s good arm, to get him to look at him.

“Can she?” he asked.

“Can I have my helmet?” Din asked in reply.

“Sure,” Pedro nodded. “The bacta did its job on your head injury.” He gently took the said item from the nightstand table and placed it over Din’s head. 

The familiar tint of the visor and the weight of the helmet were small comforts Din welcomed in this strange new world.

“You can come in now,” Pedro called.

The door opened and Cara—no, _Gina_ —came in still wearing her dark blue satin dress and black high heels. Her black hair was done in a pretty side do, a braid on the left, and her lips were stained red. 

_She really is beautiful,_ Din found himself thinking. _Is this what Cara would look like if she dressed up?_

Behind her came a blonde woman wearing bright fuschia trousers and a matching short-sleeved tunic, holding a board, a black rubber instrument around her neck. 

“Sorry, but since you’re awake, I gotta check you over first,” the woman said in a honeyed voice, coming into the room and closing the door behind herself.

Both Pedro and Gina seemed at ease, but Din was not. He was confused. What did “check you over” entail?

As if she could possibly read his mind, the nurse said, “I’m going to check your blood pressure and temperature. Do you feel hazy or groggy from the anesthesia?” 

_Hazy or groggy from the_ what _?_

Aloud, Din only answered, “A few minutes ago, but not now.”

“Good,” the nurse nodded, smiling. Din got the distinct feeling that she was impatient, wanting to get this “checking over” done as quickly as possible and leave.

Walking over to the right side of his bed to his good arm, the woman pulled out a black long strip of material with a dial of some sort and rubber tube sticking out of it and a ball at one end. It had been in a white wire rack on the wall Din had not noticed earlier.

“I’m just going to check your blood pressure,” the nurse said, securing the thing around Din’s upper arm and placing a cold metal disk to the crease of his elbow. She put two rubber tips of the instrument around her neck into her ears, and then proceeded to use the rubber ball on the first thing to...oh, squeeze Din’s arm?! 

_How does this check blood pressure?_ Din found himself wondering. 

After about a minute of silence, the woman took the instruments away, muttering some numbers that made no sense to Din, and wrote them on the board she had been carrying.

“Now, for your temp,” she said, getting out a thin white stick from her tunic pocket and placing a clear cover over one end. “Could you put the towel back on? The most accurate readings come from the mouth.”

 _Have these people never heard of a medisensor before?_ _Where_ have _I landed?_

“Oh, uh...sure,” Din said aloud.

The nurse took a few steps back and turned to face the window, closing her eyes. Din waited a moment, and when he didn't see any movement from anyone in the room, removed his helmet with the help of Pedro, and set it on the nightstand table, then placed the white towel over his head again.

“Alright.”

A cool metal tip was ever so slightly pressed to his lips under the towel, and he got the message, opening his mouth so the stick could be held under his tongue. After a few seconds of quiet, a low beeping went off and the stick was removed.

“98.3, that’s normal. Good.” 

There was the sound of scribbling on paper as the nurse recorded that as well. 

“The surgery went as expected. There were three places where the rotator cuff was torn, and the doctors were able to suture the tendon back onto the bone. Recovery time is four to six weeks in a sling, then exercises with a physical therapist—I’ll write down some we suggest around the area—and then active exercises by yourself, to get your shoulder strength back and working normally.”

“Alright,” Din nodded, not really understanding the first part but understanding the second part. _I’m gonna be useless for at least four weeks! I can’t wait that long, I need to find my son and get off this planet._ He then thought, _Someone else besides this man—Pedro—will have to see me. What are we going to tell him?_

“Okay, well, I will let you rest for a little bit, and then we’ll get Dr. Thomas in here to do a final evaluation and discharge you home,” Din could hear the now genuine smile in the nurse’s voice.

He only nodded. 

He was ready for some peace and quiet, but also wanted to get conversing right away with Pedro about _what the hell was going on with his life_. He knew he had to rest and recuperate, get his strength and his mobility back, but he was impatient. 

There was the sound of the hospital room door opening and closing.

Din could hear Pedro resume his seat next to the bed. “Want your helmet back?”

He had read Din’s mind. 

“Yes.” _I hate not being able to see._

“I’ll turn my back,” Gina said.

Din had almost forgotten she was in the room.

Pedro removed the cloth from Din’s head and placed it on the nightstand table, then grabbed Din’s helmet for him and slid it on. Again, the tinted visor and weight were welcomed comforts in this strange time.

“Hi, guys,” Gina sighed with a small smile, walking over to Pedro from the corner where she had been standing.

Pedro got up and readily gave her a hug, running a soothing hand up and down her back for a moment. 

In that instance, Din craved a friendship such as theirs. 

Gina then stepped to Din’s side, leaning down to...oh, kiss his helmet right where his forehead would be. “I was worried about you.”

That was unexpected!

“Oh...thanks,” Din didn’t quite know what to say to that. There was an awkward silence until, “Why aren’t you more freaked out about this?” he found himself saying the thought aloud.

“Oh, I was. I already had my freak-out session while you were in surgery. All good, now.” She took the empty seat next to his left.

There were a few seconds of pleasant quiet, then Gina broke it with the question, “So, what now?”

“Well, if it’s alright with you, Din,” Pedro started, and Din turned his head to look at him. “I thought you could come stay with me for a while. You’re gonna be in a sling for four to six weeks, so…”

“I do need a place to stay,” Din muttered, mulling the idea over in his head, resigned to the fact that he would have to be on this strange planet for the time being in order to heal. He couldn’t do anything or properly protect himself with one good arm. At least he would have free housing until he was able to get back on his own feet and figure out how to get off this rock, and back to his child. “Where am I?” As always, he kept his sentences short and to the point.

Pedro and Gina shared a confused look, then Gina realized what he was asking. “You’re on Earth. It’s a planet entirely populated with humans. No Wookies, Jawas, Hutts, Ewoks, Gungans, Mon Calamari. We haven’t even scratched the surface of space travel yet. We’ve only gotten as far as to land a person on our moon, and to get a land rover on Mars. We’re working on getting people to colonize it, but that’s a long way off.”

“What a real backwater skug hole,” Din muttered, not liking how primitive Earth sounded. _This place where I’ll be all but ‘trapped.’_ he thought morosely. 

“Hey!” Pedro gently jabbed him in his good shoulder. “We may be behind in technology and space travel, but there is a lot of good in this world. Just you wait and see,” he grinned, brown eyes flashing playfully.

Gina cracked a smile at the exchange. 

“How do you know about Wookies, Jawas, Hutts, and all that if you don’t have any?” Din wondered. 

_Is this planet some sort of Imperial hub?_ He quickly dismissed that thought, though. Why would former Imperials have such rudimentary technology and no space travel? Former Imperials were usually loaded with money.

“Uh, well…” Gina scratched her head and avoided Din’s gaze. “That’s kind of complicated.” 

“What are you hiding from me?” Din demanded with a glare at both people. His heart rate went up the longer the two stayed silent. Worst-case scenarios were running through his head at breakneck speed. 

“Din...everyone here thinks you, the Child, The Client, Moff Gideon, everyone—is fictional—not real,” Pedro explained quietly, running a hand through his hair, clearly nervous. “Gina and I, we’re actors. We play you and Cara in a television show—holovid?—that two guys created, the idea of a Mandalorian bounty hunter who finds a child and goes against the Bounty Hunters’ Guild to protect it. The wider world and galaxy of your...dimension or whatever, is known as _Star Wars_ here.”

“Actors?” was the only word Din was able to grasp onto. He knew he knew what an actor was, but just couldn’t remember. 

“Yes. The creators came up with the overarching plot, but there are writers who come up with what happens and writes out—is influenced by—the creators’ dream. The director makes what the writers wrote a reality by telling us actors what to do and how to do it,” Pedro explained.

Din felt his heart drop to his stomach and his face paled under his helmet. His hands were suddenly clammy. _I’m not real. I don’t exist here! How is that possible? What_ dimension _have I landed in where I’m not real and...that means_ Ad’ika’s _not real, and Cara and Greef. Oh gods, no! Have I landed in some twisted hell where gods in human bodies create my life and decide my fate in another universe?_

“We know about the Galactic Empire and Palpatine, the Death Star, Darth Vader, and the Battles of Yavin and Endor, because a guy named George Lucas came up with it all decades ago,” Gina continued for Pedro. “It’s-it’s all for entertainment. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” By the end, Din could see tears in her chocolate brown eyes.

“My life is a living hell for the purpose of _entertainment_? Is-is everything I’ve been through because of the will of a few story writers?” Din choked out over a lump of emotion that was quickly swelling in his throat.

* * *

It was time for Pedro’s stomach—and Gina’s—to drop. 

_Oh God, was it?_

Pedro hadn’t thought of that before. When a new story was created, and written, did it create a new dimension? A new universe? _Every decision._ Were writers actually gods, without even knowing it?

“I don’t know,” Pedro eventually settled on. “I don’t know how this whole thing works.”

Din turned his head to look at Gina. Silent tears were sliding down her cheeks, she was devastated. When she saw Din looking at her, her bright white teeth bit her bottom lip, and slowly stretched her hand to place it on Din’s injured shoulder. He couldn’t feel it, but he still let her. 

“Hopefully that’s not true. That is way too much power for one person to have. We are not gods, just mere simple mortals.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh! So much angst and hurt/comfort for even myself to take. I live for angst and hurt/comfort. I am also a total romantic, and love parent-child and sibling relationships. Family is everything to me. Did anyone recognize the slight nod to Chapter 2, when the Armorer says “When one chooses to walk the way of the Manda’lor, you are both hunter and prey”? Hope you guys liked the chapter! 
> 
> Pedro does have a small Jack Russell terrier Chihuahua mix named Edgar, seen on his Instagram a lot. Bernard Bullen is the actor who played Din Djarin’s father in the flashbacks of The Mandalorian and Alex is Alexandra Manea, the actress who played Din's mother. Guess the forehead kiss was him feeling paternal towards the real Din? As of November 2019, Bernard actually hadn’t had a chance to meet Pedro, as heard [ in this interview](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yUMPxWpqjUQ), but in my story, he does, because the Mother and Father are in my Season 2, because I want more of them! Oh, by the way, I’m not a doctor! Although, I do have a cardiac nurse for a sister who’s been floated to every department in a hospital. Ad'ika = little one/son/daughter (from Mandoa.org). Some direct quotes are from megasaurus’ the curious happenstance of pedro pascal and din djarin. Thanks, sweetie, for beta-ing!

**Author's Note:**

> Din’s first run-in with a “Jedi” and he doesn’t even know what it is, and it’s a Sith, to boot! Where Din channels all his anger into a fist, I got the idea from Sun in Sense8, one of my favorite TV shows. The place Din appears in is the Los Angeles Convention Center. See [this page](https://aneskey.com/abrasions-avulsions-lacerations-and-puncture-wounds/) for different types of wounds. These are the stories that I’ve drawn inspiration from, and a few direct quotes: [somebody catch my breath](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22023223) by carefulren. [I See You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22008082/chapters/52518679) by tamehistorian. [What Are You?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22097233) by Calico (Calico123).


End file.
